I recently met a colorful character - ripped from a Hemingway Science Fiction novel ghost written by Dominick Dunne (if you can wrap your mind around the analogy) whose life story, I'm convinced, would make a best selling book. "People have told me I should write about my life before," he said, "but I have A.D.D..."
Before he could finish his thought, my A.D.D. kicked in. "This could be like the life story that that guy on Oprah made up and then had to apologize for - except it would be TRUE!"
"I'll WRITE IT!," I said with volume and enthusiasm "this could be the BIG BREAK I've been waiting for my entire life!" Immediately I started dreaming of book signings (for him) and having the vicarious thrill of having the dedication be to me (which of course I would write -thereby boosting my profile and leading to an eventual book deal for me). Everyone would live happily ever after. And contribute to world peace.
Of course, it might take some convincing to get him to spill for me - and in trying to give examples of ghost writing I've done, I was a little challenged. Penning someone's life story is not exactly like ghosting the industry overview section on the future of interior design for a valuation report, nor is it like writing a headnote for a law book, nor is it - for that matter - like blogging about my own life - which I probably understand - because it's hard to put words in other peoples' mouthes. Then I started thinking back on my other bouts with ghosting...
Since some people pay me to create and maintain their social networking sites (as in Facebook, LinkedIn and Twitter) and my friend The Mover, who I’ve known for at least ten years, recently asked me to create his Facebook page for him. It wasn’t the first time anyone asked me to do this; I’ve been ghost writing for years, in one way or another. When I was in law school, a college co-ed (Cesca) who was a friend of the family asked me to write papers for her.
“I’m going to buy them somewhere,” she said, “I want to be a cop so there’s no reason why I need to take philosophy – so cheating is fine.”
At first I declined – but when she started waving 50s and massaging my fragile writer’s ego with lines like “No one knows more about philosophy than you do…I never understand what you’re saying…that must mean you’re deep.”
“I’LL DO IT!,” I said, lured by the pitch. So I began to compose a series of essays for her – one more rambling and rife with symbolism than the other. After she got an A minus and a B plus, respectively – I felt that I had earned my money and was ready to move away from the subterfuge.
Then she said “My teacher loves your writing…he said I could raise my grade to an A if I did an extra essay on ‘who am I’…would you do it?”
“Cesca,” I said, “I’m studying for finals – I’ll never pass Biz Org…I can’t do this…”
“Sure you can,” she said, “He already likes the stuff – just do it…don’t even think about it…I’ll pay you $75”
I can’t figure out which attracted me more – the money or the ego massage – so once again, I complied – and wrote a long and rambling piece punctuated with quotes and references to Plato and Sartre and Jung and Freud and Ms. Magazine and Popular Mechanics. All of my frustration (being in law school when I really wanted to be in Vermont writing poetry – living at home – having been born with straight hair) poured out onto the pages. I knew that I had written something if not brilliant in the general scheme of things – at least stellar for a community college freshman who, in reality, couldn’t string a sentence without punctuating it with gum cracking and “ya nose.”
In short order, the professor enthusiastically concurred.
“Oh beautiful, wonderful you! Cesca – have you considered majoring in philosophy? You have missed your calling. A PLUS PLUS! Bravo!!!” He even put a smiley face on it.
Cesca and I were both thrilled by the results.
“I owe ya,” she said; and not only did she pay me $75 – but she threw in a bottle of Mateus Rose – which – in those days – was like Dom Perignon to me (I needed to make a second lamp after all).
All of this would have had a happy ending – except that Cesca’s philosophy teacher was so enthusiastic about her apparent talent that he discussed it with another professor he knew – who happened to be Cesca’s remedial English professor.
“That’s odd,” the English professor said, “she’s barely passing my class.”
All of this was recounted to Cesca by the philosophy professor – and thank heaven his ego won out.
“Obviously, you came to LIFE in my class,” he said, “I see a talent in you that no one else brings out…if you decide you’d like to go in this direction…come to talk to me about it – I’d be happy to guide you in your career path.”
And then there was the phase when I ghost wrote responses to personal ads (in the years before online dating) for my friend SooSea who was recently divorced from a Venezuelan playboy/con-artist who seduced her by doing work around her home and telling her she had “beauty fool” eyes – and then took all the money they got as wedding gifts (from her relatives) back to his women in South America.
“I think I need to meet someone else,” she said, “you like to write – can you help me answer personal ads?”
At the time I hardly knew her, but thought she was attractive and intelligent and that anyone who didn’t want to date her must be nuts.
“Sure!,” I said, “this will be fun.”
Peter, our mutual boss, who learned of our scheme, pulled us both aside. “You can’t do this,” he said, “you two are way too different…you get excited about everything and she has no ‘oomph.”
“Why do you say that?,” SooSea said, not changing expression and yawning.
“That doesn’t matter!,” I said, “I’ll write letters that reflect who SHE IS and she’ll meet the man of her dreams!”
So immediately we started reading the personal ads in New York Magazine and finding prospects for her.
“This one sounds good,” I said, “He’s a Swedish millionaire and lives at the Helmsley!”
“I can’t go out with him,” SooSea said, “he lives at the Helmsley…and I live in squalor…find someone else.”
“Just leave it to me,” I said, “let’s just use a scattergun approach.”
So – I answered hundred of ads – and we got amazing responses – ultimately leading to someone who SooSea really wanted to meet.
“I talked to him on the phone,” she said, “he sounds a little nuts…he has a dog named Cutlet and owns a store called ‘Little Shop of Shutters.”
“PERFECT,” I said, “Call the caterers! You’re going to marry this guy!”
“I don’t think so,” SooSea responded, “he said ‘you sound a lot more reserved than you did in your letter…do you really go sky diving?”
“Well,” I said, “Just tell him you were being allegorical – meet him for a drink.”
“Can you come on the date?,” she asked, “Please – I’m nervous.”
“That would be bizarre,” I said, “and you wouldn’t get to know him as well. Just meet him in public – you’ll be safe.”
“What if he thinks I’m ugly?,” she asked.
Since SooSea was – and still is – a knock-out – I attributed her lack of confidence to her upbringing. Her mother is the poster child for the Association of Shrill Bitches and apparently was the model for Joan Crawford’s character in “Mommie Dearest.” I had my own run-ins with SooSea’s mom when she said “I can’t believe you didn’t pass the bar exam – who could fail the bar exam? My Janice passed and she’s not even smart…”
(She managed to dis both her older daughter and me in one sentence).
When SooSea told her mother that she wanted to bring me on her blind date, Mommie Dearest said “Are you crazy? It will make you look EVEN WORSE!”
Anyway – because I wanted to help her find true and everlasting love and to help overcome her negative image of herself, SooSea convinced me to go on the date with her. And it was, predictably, a disaster. Although the guy sounded a little eccentric on the phone when SooSea spoke to him – he turned out to be certifiable and brought his dog along as well other items which, for several reasons, I won’t mention. SooSea and I were both, for once, speechless – and vowed never to do answer another personal ad (other than the one by a 70 year old man who said he was “nimble” and wanted to meet an intelligent Vegan woman. We thought it might be Jack LaLanne).
Although I did eventually introduce SooSea to a man who ended up being a friend and companion to her for years (my former haircutter, also South American) – it had nothing to do with my writing.
Still – I plugged away –
And still, the SooSea story isn’t the worst.
In ninth grade, my friend Jamie and I were both in advanced Spanish at Holy Trinity in Hicksville, because we had previously gone to public school where languages were offered in seventh grade.
One of our assignments was to recite the “Our Father” in Spanish. Although at the time, I wasn’t studious, apparently I was more so than Jamie, since she didn’t even know the first line of the prayer.
Now – before I tell you what happened – keep in mind that a few months prior, we had both been assigned to read “Cry the Beloved Country” which she didn’t finish – and for which she asked me about the ending so she could complete a book report. I gave her a complete fabrication, and she failed of course. The wife did not run away with gardener, and the book was not about the civil war.
Any – re: the Lord’s Prayer – I started out giving her the right words…”Padre Nuestro que estas en los cielos” (Our father/who are in Heaven…) – and then went off on a tangent about boys playing ball in the street (los ninos jugabana a la pelota…) and other random lines from dialogs.
Remarkably, although she got a dirty look (and maybe even detention) – she wasn’t all that upset.
This of course, led me to the conclusion that it was my calling to be a ghost writer.
So when The Mover asked me to set up his Facebook profile, I put in things I knew about him – and fabricated some; example: his favorite television shows are not “Ugly Betty” and “Keeping Up with Kardashians” and his favorite book was not “The Little Engine That Could.” He didn’t notice that anything was awry – since he really doesn’t get that involved with social networking forums – but then the other day he asked me “How do you know Sloan Wainwright” (who is one of his Facebook friends, by invitation).
“I don’t,” I said, “I went to one of her concerts – she opened for Rufus – and I took a picture of her with the kids…why?”
“My friend wanted to know why she was on my friend list,” he explained, “what else did you write?”
I found an excuse to hang up before telling him he was a member of the Swedish Bitters Appreciation Society, a fan of Lawrence Welk, that one of his favorite hobbies is fencing and that he spends most of his free time on philanthropic pursuits and that the purpose of his existence is to “plant trees under whose shade he never expects to sit.”
He’ll thank me later when he gets the Nobel Peace Prize.
